


Easy As Breathing

by inbox



Series: Church and State [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Established Relationship, I Love You, M/M, Relationship breakdown, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Sturges talks about love a lot, as if it's as easy and natural as breathing, mentioned off-handedly like a statement of unshakable fact, and doesn’t care a whit that the phrase ‘I love you’ makes Church purse his lips like an ol’ maiden.Male Sole Survivor/Sturges





	Easy As Breathing

Sturges talks about love a lot, as if it's as easy and natural as breathing, mentioned off-handedly like a statement of unshakable fact, and doesn’t care a whit that the phrase ‘I love you’ makes Church purse his lips like an ol’ maiden.

He says it as he’s about to leave, buttoning up his coveralls and jamming his feet into his boots with a stomp, as satisfied as a man fresh washed and full of breakfast can be.

“Horseshit,” Church says in return. He turns the page of his book, forks up more of his scrambled eggs. 

“Nah,” says Sturges, and affectionately pats him on the shoulder. “You're good. I've got stuff to do.”

* * *

 

He put a couple of deck chairs up on the roof of the Red Rocket the first day he moved in, hauling them up on an improvised block and tackle and praying he wouldn't break his neck. A little finessing over time and he’s got quite the set-up for the pair of them. A deck made square and even, a radio, a little cooler to keep his beer and Church’s soda as cold as can be.

It’s a fine place to waste a summer evening together, ‘specially on a night like tonight, with the sun setting and the clouds stained a brilliant orange across their bellies. 

Church blows a smoke ring into the air and the breeze catches it, sending it square into Sturges’ face. He starts when Sturges snorts with laughter and leans over to kiss his temple, bumping the arm of his glasses. 

“You're an ol’ shit,” says Sturges affectionately. “Good thing I love you.”

“Huh,” says Church stiffly, but he doesn’t pull away.

The world doesn't care. The sun sets regardless. 

* * *

 

“Christ,” gasps Church, sounding like the air had been knocked from him. “Fuck, honey...”

The metal bed frame smacks into the concrete wall, ringing loud in the converted warehouse that they live in when they're in Diamond City. The harder Sturges fucks him, the louder the bedframe rings, the deeper he gets into this impossible fucker that he can't get enough of. Church pounds at the mattress with his fist and digs in his heels, and groans his way through a dry orgasm that rolls on and on and on. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” says Sturges. "I'm gonna--"

He pulls out and comes across Church’s hole, wringing his dick until he's empty and his back locks from the effort. He slumps over Church and artlessly mouths at his jaw, and says  _ sweetheart, I love you, god _ in a voice that's thick and dry and inarticulate. 

Church stops him talking with a chaste brush of lips, and for good measure pulls him close until Sturges is smeared with his own cum from navel to thigh. "Don't talk horseshit," he says, and lets him go to roll over and fish around for a dirty shirt to wipe off the worst of it. "You always dribble sentimental after you blow."

"Maybe you just loosen my mouth," counters Sturges, and takes a good look at him buck naked on the tossed sheets, his skin painted extra flattering by the dim lantern light. "Maybe I'll try'n marry you after round two."

"Maybe," says Church with a chuckle, rolling onto his stomach and glancing back over his shoulder. "Get it up and we'll see."

They wash up and go out for something to eat afterwards. Steak, like Church promised him. A good steak dinner and an unhurried walk through the stands, arm in arm.

* * *

 

Sturges holds a hand over his eyes and watches the vertibird land on the hill outside of Sanctuary. Church steps down easy on the far side of the ‘bird, looking impossibly small next to the bulk of the heavily armoured soldier who follows him. 

He waves when they look over his way.

Church takes the hill down to the gas station with some trouble. A bad knee, hips jarred in compensation. Sturges thinks that he'll fix him up tonight. The man following him eyes Sturges warily.

“Hey you,” he says warmly. He's not sure how to act, how Church wants him to act. He's not had much to do with these new players in town, The Brotherhood of something, and he sure as shit can't read how friendly they are gonna be to the locals. 

Church answers his dilemma for him, shoving his rifle sling to his hip and kissing him with all the desperation of a month apart, big hands cradling his face. They break apart, foreheads touching, glasses pressed slightly askew. 

“Hey,” says Sturges. 

“Hey,” says Church. The corners of his eyes are crinkled just a little. It's the happiest Sturges has seen him in a good long time. “Been a while.”

“You don't say,” says Sturges. He holds Church's hand in his own, and wonders if he looks as radiantly besotted as he feels. He kisses him again, says  _ love you _ real quiet. 

“Knight, we should find safe shelter for tonight,” says the tin can, as stiff as his armour.

“Right,” says Church, distracted to the point of rudeness. “Yes, Paladin,” he corrects himself, and squeezes Sturges’ hand. “Jesus,” he says low, and kisses him again. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Sturges lets him go, and says that the uniform suits him. Real handsome, he says with a wink, and dusts a little imaginary dust from the shoulder piece as an excuse to feel the swell of muscle underneath. 

Church preens. The tin can radiates with disapproval.

They make quick plans. Church will escort his associate into to town and go wash up, Sturges will lock up and walk into Sanctuary when he's finished up his work for the day. Quick as possible, he adds with a grin. Quick as possible to get a good look at every zip and buckle of that jumpsuit for himself. 

He hopes to god the tin can isn’t staying on Church’s sofa. Some reunions are too good to be kept quiet.

* * *

 

“I'd move north,” Church says, ashing his cigarette into a sad potted aloe. “Always liked Maine.”

Sturges slurps the foam from his beer and shrugs. “Too wet for me.”

He glances sideways, shrewdly assessing him from behind the battered arm of his glasses. “So no point in asking you to pack your bags and come with me?” 

“Not a chance in hell,” Sturges says cheerfully, and leans back to wrap a big arm ‘round Church’s shoulders. “I love ya, but not enough to live in fog from dawn to dusk.”

“Hmm,” says Church. He drums his fingers on his thigh and ashes his cigarette again, like a nervous tic. “Hmm.”

* * *

 

The explosion was a month ago, a violent fireball burning bright enough to light up the star-filled sky like it was midday. Sometimes the wind still turns and blows sour over Sanctuary, seeping under the doors of the gas station and making Sturges’ skin itch and his throat close tight. 

Hell of a thing. Hell of a choice. A lot of chalk marks to have on a fella’s eternal scoreboard, for good or bad. 

Church walked back into town a week after with a new rank sewn on his shoulder and a new tin can trailing behind him. He didn't say boo to anyone and locked himself in his house for a good while. 

The new kid had nothing to do ‘cept stand at attention and wait, but it wasn't long til someone put him to work in the melon patch. No free meals, Marcy said. Sturges privately agreed with her. 

Church looks like shit when he finally leaves his house, shaved back hard enough that there's razor burn on his neck. Nothing hides the stink of old razorgrain mash sweating out his pores. 

“You good?” It's not so much of a question as a statement and an order to the man at his elbow in the kitchen tent. Be good. Be sober and dry. Be back to normal. Sturges fills his plate with thick slices of sourdough and dripping.

“Not really,” says Church, sloppily ladling radstag stew into his bowl. “Not worth talking about.”

Sturges just says  _ mmhmm _ and takes a seat with the Whittakers, and makes some talk about fixing up their sagging fences. Church pays for both their meals and follows him, but stops before he takes a seat. 

Church stops at his shoulder and awkwardly claps him on the shoulder. “You're good,” he says. “Don't say it enough, but I'm… we're good.” 

* * *

The miserable shit leaves without a goodbye worth remembering. Picked up and gone in the middle of the night, not any consideration ‘cept for shoving an envelope of keys under Sturges’ garage door in the dead of the night. Keys to his house and the papers to their Diamond City warehouse, instructions for popping the lock on some fishing shack way up north. His workshop is untouched ‘cept for the addition of a fragile manual for Mr Handy Serial Number #600249366, personality module ‘Codsworth’.

Asshole took all the photos with him. Christ almighty.

Sturges calls him a damn idiot, and calls himself a damn idiot for good measure. 

Always did have a soft spot for the basket cases. Always so quick to love fools that don't know how to love him back. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I've written anything and I mostly wanted to see if I still could make words happen. Done is better than perfect if the choice is perfection or nothing, you know?
> 
> I have a [Fallout shitpost blog](http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi or whatever.


End file.
